DABOISASTRGLEDT – by Ivaniel “Ivo” Georgiev
DABOIS are back—still struggling in the free world of free trials.
Another Thursday, a couple more steps up life’s shitpile summit. This week, like the last, I’m continuing the conversation about freedom. Writing about it feels so refreshing—I honestly can’t stop. I keep finding new angles to explore, and today’s theme is one of them:
How many times have we sinned? How many times have we been forgiven? How many people have we forgiven? But more importantly—have we done so at the expense of others, or for our own gain?
It’s not the wrong choices that shape our lives—but what follows after them.
Nietzsche said, “Truth is a fire, and to speak it is to burn.” Well, I burned for so long as I can remember—but from speaking lies. Now, I’m well-rounded pile of ash—so it can’t get any worse, right?
Freedom isn’t a key; it’s a torch. And I’m still scarred.
You carry your betrayals wherever you go. But the truth? Truth can illuminate the shadows—if you dare light the match.
- Being Strange in a Normal World
I’ve always felt like a strange person—not dramatically or specially, just… out of sync. I rarely click with the people around me. These days, I chalk it up to spiritual growth—but honestly, I’ve felt this way for as long as I can remember. Maybe I was born in the wrong time. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve stopped accepting things “as they are”—especially when most people seem to understand without really discerning.
You don’t know how to grow potatoes until you try; I’ve helped a few times, but I wasn’t invested in the process—so who knows?
That might sound like I’m fooling around with ideas—but this is how I think.
I don’t consider myself particularly smart or talented. I’ve accepted that.
And weirdly, that acceptance became a foundation. From here on, I’m trying to build something—or at least stop pretending if I don’t.
I’m an apple that didn’t fall far from the tree—but I’m still trying to tear it open and find the liberation I was once too scared to claim.
- From Dreams to Walking My Path
I used to want a Lamborghini—not that I’d refuse one now—but these days, I just want to get from point A to point B, as long as I stay in the lane of my values. Even if it’s hitchhiking (maybe especially if it’s hitchhiking).
I used to dream of being a businessman who’d travel the world, meet people, and be heard. Why? Because I wanted to feel valued—for what I had to offer. But now? Now I want to travel the world to listen. I can talk, sure—but I’d rather do it less. And more precisely.
Business? That’s not the point. It’s about making enough to live. Enough to fund the journey.
How exactly that’ll happen—I don’t know yet. Maybe by building skills to work remotely. Maybe by grinding for a few years and saving up. Unclear. And that’s okay.
- Maintaining the Image You’ve Earned
Back then, I was still building the image I wanted to be. Every day felt like a struggle to keep that illusion alive. Now, that image exists. And my job is to maintain it—and improve it over time.
Reading this now, I realise something: Today’s version of me is a product of who I was.
And that’s actually… beautiful—spare your judgment; I know this sounds like a positive-energy yoga teacher quote.
The man I was wanted everything. The man I am now wants less—and does what he truly wants. Still, that past version played a starring role in getting me here. All the suffering, foolishness, vanity, wasted time and money—they left a mark.
Maybe it’s late, but not too late;
A new role took over in the next act. And the next. And the next… capiche?
- The Future Is Unclear—And That’s the Point
The future is one thing: unclear (call me Socrates Jr.—I’m part Greek, and I know one thing: I know nothing).
Markets rise and fall—I read that somewhere.
Wars are still fought in the 21st century—Is that the name of a play?
Freedom feels more threatened than welcomed—my grandma said that, actually.
Nothing is certain—I started believing that the day I lost my virginity.
And the ones who believe in certainties? They suffer most of all—I was certain I’d get laid again.
Alright—enough joking around for now. Welcome Back, BOIS and GALS. Before I go deeper into today’s topic, I just want to welcome all the new readers—and those returning for another week. It’s a pleasure writing about my life, my thoughts, my growth(ish).
It helps me move forward. It helps me remember.
And maybe—just maybe—you’ll find even one sentence in here that gives you a new perspective. Or a little hope—that’s my hope.
If freedom and its nature interest you, check out last week’s post: Freedom as a Function: Between Liberty and Death…
Drugs, Wrong Choices, Betrayal, Forgiveness
No doubt—I’ve had my share in all of it. I’ve never considered myself addicted—to anything. Not social scenes. Not social media. Not even drugs. But I have flirted with living without responsibility. And that kind of life? It turned me into an attention-craving stalker.
I always thought I had my own opinions—the problem is, I rarely voiced them. And when I did speak up? I never defended them. I’d fold like a paper crane in the rain.
I’ve lost count of how many times I told myself, “This mistake will be my last.” Only to disappoint myself—and those around me—again.
How many people have I betrayed? Wrong question.
How many haven’t I? Truthfully? None.
As much as I wish that weren’t the case.
How many have I forgiven? Not enough.
But forgiveness—unlike trust—doesn’t expire.
That’s one of the few things in life you can fix.
You can always forgive. You don’t even need to be asked.
I’ve been surfing this “freedom” wave since last week’s post, and I still haven’t come down.
Last week in the phrases edition, I referenced a scene from HBO’s Euphoria—a heavy conversation between Rue and Ali. It stuck with me. Still does. I could’ve written something equally reflective myself—but this one deserved to breathe on its own (and it saves me time). So here it is. Shortened for punch. Left raw, to linger.
Let’s start there—Then I’ll pick it up again.
RUE: What am I supposed to do about Jules? I still blame her for all this.
ALI: Why?
RUE: I was clean. Happy, even. Then Jules…
ALI: You were gonna stay clean? With pills in your room?
RUE: I wasn’t taking them.
ALI: Just saving them. While planning to stay clean?
RUE: Ali, you don’t know what she did to me.
ALI: You’re right.
RUE: She cheated. When I was sober.
ALI: I didn’t know that. So… you two were in a relationship?
RUE: Yeah.
ALI: I thought you were just friends?
RUE: No. It changed the night of the carnival—we kissed.
ALI: But did you talk about being together?
RUE: We said “I love you” a lot.
ALI: I say that to my barber.
RUE: You don’t make out with your barber. We talked about getting matching tattoos.
ALI: Did you?
RUE: No. But we talked about it. I loved her. I trusted her. And she left me. Like everyone else.
ALI: That train station night?
RUE: Yeah. She wanted to run away. I was scared. No meds. It felt selfish. And then she left. Like my mom kissing my forehead, saying Dad would be okay. Or Jules promising forever. And then she meets someone new and bounces. It made me think—maybe I deserve it. Maybe I’m being punished for being a piece of shit. Stealing. Hitting my mom…
ALI: Drugs change people.
RUE: I wasn’t high when I hurt my mom.
ALI: Still. They change you.
RUE: (quietly) It’s unforgivable.
ALI: No, it’s not.
RUE: Come on.
ALI: If it was, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’ve done worse.
RUE: Yeah, right.
ALI: You’re playing pool with Minnesota Fats. Thinking about what you did defines you. But the more you believe that, the less you try to change. You give up on yourself. And that’s the real danger.
RUE: Ali, I pointed a piece of glass at my mom and said I’d kill her.
ALI: Right.
RUE: That’s terrible.
ALI: But what does it mean?
RUE: That I’m a piece of shit.
ALI: Look deeper.
RUE: That I hurt someone I love.
ALI: Why?
RUE: Because that’s who I am.
ALI: Are you okay with that?
RUE: No.
ALI: Then maybe it’s not who you are.
RUE: But I still did it.
ALI: Why does that bother you?
RUE: Because it’s cruel. My mom doesn’t deserve it.
ALI: And you believe that?
RUE: Yes.
ALI: Then your beliefs matter. So maybe doing something wrong doesn’t mean you are wrong. Maybe it just means you’re human.
RUE: But not everyone threatens their mom.
ALI: True. Yours is extreme. Why?
RUE: Drugs. Emotional stuff.
ALI: Or maybe you’re just a piece of shit?
RUE: (laughs) No.
ALI: You sure?
RUE: Yeah.
ALI: Then why punish yourself like you are? Telling yourself you’re beyond forgiveness—it’s harsh. And too easy. It lets you keep doing the same things, thinking you deserve the worst. That’s how people get stuck. That’s why the world keeps getting worse—people stop believing in redemption.
RUE: What have you done that’s so bad?
ALI: A lot.
RUE: Like what?
ALI: I used to dream of killing my dad for beating my mom. Years later, high and angry, I hit my wife—with our daughters watching. Became the man I hated. Took me five more years to get clean. Drugs destroy your values. And the longer you use, the more you lose—including yourself.
RUE: I still think you’re a good person.
ALI: That thought keeps me trying. Though not everyone agrees. My youngest daughter doesn’t.
RUE: What’s her name?
ALI: Marie.
RUE: Ali?
ALI: Yeah?
RUE: I just don’t plan on being here that long. That’s the hard part. I love talking to you. I agree with you. I understand… But I just don’t think I’ll be around much longer.
ALI: I get it. It’s a dark time. Not a lot of hope…
My Grace in the Middle of Life
No escape from the cage you build—lie after lie, brick by brick. Life is a mix of joys and regrets—mostly regrets, with dozens of messes, unless you take certain measures. And even if you do, don’t expect everything to turn to honey and butter.
Somewhere on YouTube, I read: “Once you get to know Sade, you realise life is beautiful.” That line stuck. Not because I’m some diehard fan of the band—for the record, I am a huge fan—but because truth hides in the little things. In virtue. In art. In all their forms.
One has found when one has sought; one understood when one has desired.
For years, I wrapped vain desires in the cellophane of dreams. I was a man who said one thing and did another. That conversation between Rue and Ali made me rewind the tape and reflect. I’ve pointed fingers—often justifiably—but rarely stopped to question myself.
That’s not entirely true. I did blame myself—especially in moments when there was no one else to blame. Yet even then, I’d find someone, some shadow of a figure, to hold responsible for getting me there.
It’s taken years—many years—to start figuring things out. Small details I missed robbed me of freedom and happiness. So small, like ignored kidney stones that silently hardened into 8×4 bricks.
Every lie is a debt. Every betrayal, a weight. And the debt wasn’t cash—it was trust. Debts stack: words unsaid, truths twisted, silences louder than confessions.
I couldn’t find God in my life. Though I was baptised and raised an Orthodox Christian, the older I got, the further I drifted. Religion started to feel like fiction spun for profit—just another business model built on the backs of its followers.
Then came my twentieth year. That’s when I found meditation—the art of being alone with yourself, not in judgment, but in observation. For three years, especially at 22, I meditated almost daily. I’m not sure how much it changed me—there’s no observer to track my growth but me. Maybe that’s the curse of inner work: it’s invisible… until it’s not.
For longtime readers of the blog, this might be old news. But for the newcomers, let me be blunt: the most reckless thing I’ve done—six months ago—was drive drunk. So drunk I have no memory of it—that’s the story of my growth.
After twenty, I almost broke up with alcohol—almost. It was one of those toxic exes you know you should leave, but keep inviting over. You break up, promise it’s done, and end up in the same bed—just to confirm, again, that it doesn’t work.
Someone once said, “Without one, I can. With one, I can’t.” I lived that line more times than I care to count.
Eventually, I thought I’d conquered it. And for a while, I had. But then came the slip-ups. The reminders. Truth lies in self-control. And I’m one of those people who needs a tight leash—or he might end up in the 27 Club—IYKYK.
Same with food. From 2020 to 2022, I was vegan—not for the animals, but for the experiment. For health. For control. And I was healthier—not just because of what I ate, but because I was sleeping better, training more, resisting the cravings. Everything except the internet addiction—I never cracked that one.
Eventually, I got tired of eating like a cow on repeat and lost a lot of the progress. I didn’t get fat or stop training. But I started eating more—especially during those emotionally empty hours when I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Luckily, I never got hooked on hard drugs—if you can call that lucky. I’ve smoked weed almost nonstop for seven years, with a few breaks here and there. Each break just led to more smoking after. Right now, I’m not smoking. We’ll see how long that lasts.
I’ve tried other things: mushrooms and ecstasy seven(ish) times each, cocaine maybe four or five, LSD, amphetamine, and crystal meth once each. Thankfully, I stayed away from syringes. And I didn’t touch any of it until I was eighteen. That gave me time to build a base before I started messing with the foundation.
Weed was different. Weed became a lifestyle. I crossed America twice while high behind the wheel.
I’m not proud, but I’m glad I tried what I did—and that I’m still okay. At least, I think I’m okay. I’ll let you know after I scan my brain. This part of me isn’t something I want to erase. It’s there—like a scar you are ashamed of, but you’ve learned to live with.
I also had a stint with gambling. Across my adult life, I’ve probably spent about $4,000. It started one drunk night: I’d already lost $100, had $40 left, took ten spins—and hit $500. A few weeks later, I lost it all and then some. I swore I’d never do it again.
But similar scenes were repeated.
In Bulgaria, you can gamble from your phone—which is insane. There were mornings I started playing before even getting out of bed. Ironically, those were the most profitable. But I’d blow it all in bars and clubs. The worst came in Vegas, 2021. I lost $1,600.
Funny thing is, in 2023, I played $40 at The Strat with Lyra and Roy and walked out with $120. Haven’t been back since. Hope I never do again.
But that’s not the worst of it.
I’ve been addicted to betraying the people who trusted me most. A kleptomaniac wearing a halo of his own making. Each theft was a bar. Each lie, an extension of my sentence. It’s not how I was raised—but it’s what I observed. People are sponges. We absorb what we see. That’s not an excuse—it’s a reality.
I stole from strangers. Then from friends. From people I loved.
Sartre said, “We are our choices.” But choices begin with the devil inside. I saw mine up close. Nowadays, I only see the devil—but he has become quite a different fellow.
I remember slipping bills from Grace’s wallet as she slept in the summer of ‘17. I wasn’t high. Wasn’t desperate. Just a dishonest kid with a warped view of the world.
A couple of weeks later, I had friends over at my crib. We were supposed to party all night. I covered both taxis—since no one had small change. I figured they’d buy drinks, but we never even made it to the club. We fooled around town, then headed back, and I provided the weed. I got nothing for the taxis or the weed.
The next morning, I woke up first. I took what I was owed—plus extra for the hassle—and denied everything later.
A lot of the time, I had some reason for doing what I did—but sometimes it was purely out of greed. I rummaged through purses—at home, at parties. Dug through drawers. Through my parents’ and grandparents’ things. I even stole from charity boxes meant for people in need.
It’s a shame I buried deep, lying to cover it up. But the more I buried it, the more I repeated it. Somehow, forgetting how it made me feel every single time.
Turns out, the conscience is a muscle. It works. But the less you use it, the weaker it gets.
That’s the trap of addiction. Once you’re in, there’s no cure—just a lifelong battle. And the bookies would bet on the addiction every time. Because there’s never just one. You become the underdog in your own story, trying not to fall into their clutches.
So no—I’m light-years from perfect. But I’m trying. I’m fighting everything that’s tried to enslave me. Because redemption’s not a prayer; it’s a fight.
Ali told Rue, “Your only hope is a real, full-on revolution. Inside and out. Commit every day.”
I’m trying, believe it or not.
What I’ve learned is this: the key to staying clean lies in your daily routines. The more you fill your mind with something meaningful, the less room you leave for relapse. It’s not a guarantee—but it’s a start.
And one more thing: Do something that benefits you—not your wallet. Trust me on that. Or don’t. It’s your life.
More of Everything
Freedom’s forged, not found. I’m not ready—but I’m here. I hope you are too, DA BOIS. Every scar, every “fuck it, I’ll try again” is a sign of goodwill—of course, only when you truly mean it.
I’m the key, I’m the cage; a broken man, but free all the same.
To be or not to be, DA BOIS? That’s the question that always comes to mind.
You’re not your betrayals. You’re not your debts. You’re the truth you choose now.
How’s your life looking? What have you buried deep? Who—and what—do you owe?
There’s a deep regret in being a bad person. A heavier one in playing the villain while posing as the hero. But even regret has its limits. When you’re a teenager, people might feel sorry for you. They might even pity you. But once you turn eighteen, the world expects you to sort yourself out. Your family might still offer sympathy—depending on how far you’ve crossed the line—but don’t count on it lasting forever.
The truth? Nobody really wants pity. What we crave is acceptance—for who we are… And maybe even more than that.
But if that craving turns us into a burden, we have to change. No excuses. It’s not okay to drain the people around you. No matter how hard life gets.
There’s plenty in life to feel sorry for—but there’s even more to be thankful for.
Don’t ignore your problems. Face them. Bend them. Break them. Then rebuild something better with the pieces.
The beauty of life is in making mistakes. If you’re not making any, something’s off. Maybe you’re just good at hiding them—but hiding only builds pressure. Eventually, the weight of those secrets becomes too much. And if it doesn’t… then maybe I am the fool, talking out of turn.
We all want to win. Especially before we’ve had kids, when life’s all about us (though—what do I even know about kids?). The tragedy? Most of us stay stuck in that mindset, whether we have them or not—that much I’m sure.
Drugs, relationships, social media—you name it. These aren’t real escapes. They’re just doors. Each one leads somewhere. Sometimes, where they lead hurts more than where you started.
So be careful what you open. Take a good look around the room before you walk in. If something feels off, ask questions. Seek understanding before you step.
Now, I’m not exactly sure how to end this. There’s too much I still want to say. And maybe I’ve already said too much.
Is it enough? Maybe—for those who seek it. For the rest? It never will be.
Because the message isn’t just here at the end. It’s everywhere in this piece. It’s everywhere around you. So if you feel like you haven’t fully understood me. Or even if you think you have—go out and live. Live as you wish. And don’t excuse yourself if you don’t mean it.
“The history of the world is none other than the progress of the consciousness of freedom.” But remember: Progress burns.
Thanks for your time!
Your BOI,
Ivaniel ‘La Vida Loca’ Georgiev
P.S.
I’ve been ending the last two blogs with a poem. Feels right to make it a tradition—a poetic aftershock to the prose.
Everything and Nothing
I was born—a ram emerging headfirst,
weeping and laughing—a fate unrehearsed.
I desired, I seized—surfing the waves,
some wins, more losses—always unchained.
I met, I denied; I chose to bed the pain,
plunging into the inferno, again and again.
I led with pride, to the eye of the storm,
spiralling in circles, then paying the toll.
I stand at the crossroads—the man with no soul,
raw and unloved, stitched with scars and sorrow.
Ever fleeing heartache, the perennial black sheep,
a silent phantom drifting where the shadows sleep.
I am sublime; both day and night,
I hold the key to wrong and right.
I have consumed myself—my bones, my marrow,
a relentless wolf follows behind—the echo of hollow.
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